


bitter water

by fyborg23



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2019-02-16 01:17:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13043505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: A text at 1am, with an Nashville area code and the wordsJohn said you were good for a good time. Mulligan’s?, and that means Roman’s got to get back to work.





	bitter water

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving this series from tumblr, where it was created after an anon pointed out: "Also there is a lack of hooker!Josi AU's in the world of Predators fics.. Just saying ;) "

Roman jerks awake to the buzz of his _work_ phone next to his boxers’ waistband, and he squints at the too-blue screen before he flicks the light on. A text at 1am, with an Nashville area code and the words _John said you were good for a good time. Mulligan’s?_ , and that means Roman’s got to get back to work.

 

He chokes down cold Nescafe instant coffee, scrubs his mouth with toothpaste twice, and thanks his past self for shaving and showering _before_ bed as he slips out of the studio apartment he’s stuck with four other people. The streets are quiet, even with a Friday last call just a few hours away. The Pontiac Firebird bitches only a little when he backs into an especially dark corner of Mulligan’s parking lot, and Roman slips on his leather jacket before he swaggers across the cracked pavement and inside.

Roman lets his eyes adjust to the garish neon beer adverts, looking for someone fiddling with his phone. Roman picked this shitty bar for a reason. It’s close, and _customers_ stick out like sore thumbs here. Perfect for scoping out.

The _john_ ’s looking at his phone, looking very small in his hand. He’s big, even sitting down, and his polo, his khakis, look like a badly-chosen skin next to the fine fur on his forearms. The jut of his brow, his jaw, is almost _caveman_ , but he keeps fiddling with the phone. He doesn’t look up, and that’s what makes him– and all of those _other_ customers so obvious. Exactly none of them want to be caught with _Roman_ , and Roman smirks.

Caveman John blinks when Roman taps him, calls him “John”, and actually says, “Shea, actually.”

“I get bad reception on my phone,” Roman says, “But I’m here.” Shea licks his lips, his eyes raking Roman over. Roman leans back against the dinged bar counter, lets Shea look at the slight slide of his distressed jeans off his hips, lets Shea scoot closer. Shea smells like cheap cologne, but his gold watch glints very _luridly_ , and Roman knows Shea’d be good for the money.

Shea strokes the bar counter next to Roman’s arm, his pinky brushing against Roman’s jacket, “Yes, you are. Going to keep me entertained?”

The shark smile Shea gives, Roman gives back, and Shea nods– almost in approval. Shea gets Roman a cheap domestic, watches him glug it down avidly. Roman scrubs his mouth with the back of his hand, says, “I’m just good at swallowing things.”

“Are you.”

Roman grins at the hot prickle of Shea’s eyes on his own, and he curls his hand over Shea’s substantial arm, “Why don’t you find out?”

Shea smirks. Roman blows Shea in his ridiculous, macho pick-up, steaming up the windows with those cute little pants that caveman gives up–

The blow job is a blow _career_.

Roman leaves with his jaw sore and his wallet _heavy_. He knows Shea’ll be back. Roman’s good at what he does.

And Shea knows it.

* * *

Roman misses Taylor a little. Hutts doesn’t take more than his ten percent commission, but he’s all… business-like and trying to suck up to _his_  boss and maybe that gets Roman’s hackles up a little. Sucking up to bosses never got Roman anywhere. 

Taylor was a prick who took twenty percent of Roman’s earnings but he at least gave Roman an apartment that didn’t smell of meth and rat shit. Just a shame Taylor had to flee the country on account of some legal proceedings. 

Another point in Taylor’s favor: he never asked to see Romanevery cunting week. Hutts does. Most times, it’s _brunch_ , like they’re not involved in illegal shit and they’re just young business men working their way across “the reviving city center”. Roman picked that up in a tourism brochure once, ok, and he still can’t shake off the ridiculousness of it. A fucking earworm. 

Hutts shows up with a tall blond guy, who has a  _vampiric_  smile, and Roman knows that this is Rinne. Roman still has manners, shakes Rinne’s deathly-cold hand, offers to pay for their meals, and Hutts snorts.

“See, Rinne?” Hutts says to Rinne, and Rinne just smiles and looks Roman over like a piece of meat. He tolerates it, he _has_  to, but it means even more shit when it comes from a boss’ boss. Hutts eats his bacon, while Roman pokes at his egg whites and hopes Hutts chokes while Rinne keeps staring at him. 

Hutts leaves right after the bill’s delivered, and Rinne takes it with a smooth, large hand. Roman lets the bill slide out of his grasp, and Rinne slots in a black AmEx, signs for a generous tip, just before he looks up to Roman. 

Roman swallows. Rinne leans back against the booth, and smirks, “Hutts tells me you’re his top earner. Pretty face like that… Do you get any repeat customers?”

A bitter surge of anger slides over Roman’s tongue. Fuck, ok, he didn’t grow up wanting to be a goddamn hooker but– he’s _good_  at it. He’s got pride if nothing else. Roman licks his lips, “Enough to be his top earner, sir.”

Rinne grins, and tosses a wad of 100 dollar bills onto the beige tabletop, “Earn this, then.”

At least Rinne washed his damn balls before Roman blew him.

* * *

Shea texts Roman, just a simple _at the bar_. Even though it’s 11 in the morning, Roman doesn’t bother being surprised. The wide-eyed look Shea gave Roman when his nose brushed against the bush of Shea’s pubes, his throat flexing around that cock, like he’d never been deep-throated before, like he was ashamed at loving hearing Roman not trying very hard avoiding gagging–

Well. Shea had tipped very well.

Walking into Mulligan’s in broad daylight is a little outside Roman’s usual work- _night_ , but it makes it easier to see Shea hunched over a small glass of beer, a trucker hat slung low on his brow. Roman sits down next to Shea, his arm pressing against Shea’s shirt sleeve. From here Roman can see faded stains around the neck of Shea’s dingy white shirt, and the edges of what must be an impressively bad tattoo peaking out on the inside of Shea’s right arm.

The tattoo matches with the blunt knuckles, the stained cuticles, the pinpricks of cuts across Shea’s broad hands. Shea acts what he looks like, and Roman likes it. Means Shea’s going to be easier to manage. Roman puts on a professional smile, drawls, “Been a while, Shea.”

Shea’s ears turn pink, and he looks down at his mostly empty glass of beer, “Yeah, well. Y'want something?”

 

Roman curves his hand over the solid expanse of Shea’s thigh, “Think I know what _you_ want,” and Shea pants out a soft noise. Maybe it’d be called a whimper if he wasn’t so built like a brick shithouse. Shea slams his beer back, grimaces out an _yeah_. Roman’s dealt with fuckers who got ashamed at having a little hard-on because of _him_. Roman should have that tight feeling in his gut, that tingle of the back of his head that’s his personal fucking alarm system–

“You fuck?” Shea asks, shifting in his seat, drawing his thick finger across the rings of condensation on the bar countertop. Roman chews on his lip. There’s no way Shea gets much fucking with _that_ between his legs, thick and ridiculous. He’d almost _pay_ good money to see that cock slide into a perfect hole, all wet and pink, with Shea clutching at his balls to keep from going off like a rocket, maybe still coming anyways. Maybe if Shea had more money, more time, Roman’d let himself consider Shea fucking his ass, work himself open for a full week before he slid down and made Shea come in thirty seconds.

Roman shakes his head, “Not with new…”

Shea swallows, nods, “Yeah, get that, sorry–” the tips of his ears flushing red, and Roman leans closer to Shea. Cups Shea’s soft cock through the rough work pants, and watches Shea grip the bar countertop with white knuckles.

“This for me?” Roman asks, and fuck, watching such a big guy shudder maybe makes Roman look forward to getting paid. Needy fucker, probably would come so hard if Roman slides a finger up that ass and then tip Roman more because he got come on his face, make Roman ok moneywise for a couple days. Shea nods.

Roman noses Shea’s sweat-slick neck, “Don’t you want to put it to good use?”

Shea’s hips jerk against Roman’s palm, and _fuck_ is written across Shea’s face, and Roman grins. Some people let themselves be seduced. Even big manly _men_.

That dumb pickup of Shea’s is parked in the shade, right next to the closed-down blood bank. Shea scrubs his hands against his pants, “If you want, I can take you to that motel?”

Roman bites the inside of his mouth, “Nah, here is fine,” and watches Shea get into the pickup. Roman presses a hand on the inside of the driver’s door, “Leave it open, yeah? Better this way,” and slides his hand over the button fly of Shea’s pants. “More room for me to maneuver.”

He nudges his way in between Shea’s legs, thumbing the fly of Shea’s pants open and unbuckling him out of them. Shea lifts his hips enough for Roman to push them down halfway Shea’s thighs, and he’s watching Roman as Roman rolls a rubber on him, with enough show that Roman thinks Shea won’t try to pull the rubber off. Roman licks his lips at the sight of Shea, his hairy thighs taking up the tight space on either side of Roman, Shea’s cock twitching when Roman presses his mouth over it through Shea’s worn-thin underwear. Roman can feel Shea shiver, the creak of the car seat as Shea shifts just a little _away_ from Roman.

Maybe that makes Roman feel bold enough to pull Shea’s cock out of his underwear, and stroke it, hard and rough, probably what Shea gives himself when he can’t even _afford_ Roman. Shea’s cock is thick and hot in Roman’s hand, and the look on Shea’s face makes Roman’s pants a little tighter. Roman ignores it.

Roman kneels on the runner below the driver side, and looks at Shea. Shea rocks against Roman’s hand, his cockhead catching on the space between Roman’s finger and thumb, getting it _sticky_. Roman squeezes Shea, swallows, works up enough spit to slide his mouth across the tip of Shea’s cock. Shea mutters _fuck_ , and that’s Roman’s cue to press Shea’s cock back against the hem of his shirt, and grin, “You can hold me down, it’s just extra–”

Shea moans, presses Roman’s head down, and Roman holds on. Shea’s not gonna last long, fuck, he’s pounding into Roman’s mouth, and Roman digs his blunt nails against the bottom of Shea’s thighs. That makes Shea twitch across the roof of Roman’s mouth, and Roman makes himself press closer, his chest on fire from not having _air_. Shea’s pulling painfully at his hair, making noises that Roman can’t hear with those hairy thighs pressed against his ears, and Roman chokes involutarily–

He just has to hold on, let Shea get himself all excited, and fuck, Shea’s rubbing himself against his face, smearing his wet cock against Roman’s cheek. Roman rubs his lips against Shea’s cock, sucking a little too _hard_ , and fucking slides his thumb against the rough curl of Shea’s asshole as he sucks–

Shea comes with a surprised shout, pushing too far into Roman’s throat, getting the heavy taste of latex all over Roman’s tongue.

Roman lets Shea pant for a few moments before he gets to his feet, watching Shea twitch the condom off his cock before he tosses onto the asphalt. Roman scrubs his mouth, and doesn’t _have_ to extend his hand to get some dollar bills pressed into them.

Shea rasps out, “Thanks–” his eyes flick down to the tent in Roman’s jeans, “Um, want me to–” reaching out to touch Roman’s cock–

Roman slaps his hand away. Roman gives Shea a sharp smile, maybe likes the tiny flicker of hurt in those eyes, and shrugs, “Places to be.”

* * *

Grit and sweat clings to Roman’s hands as he shoulders open the flimsy metal door of the motel room, a gust of hot air baking his face and making him curl his arm over his eyes. There’s money in his pocket, coke in his blood, and he jams on his sunglasses against the dense glare of the sun. Being high _and_ hot sucks even more when there’s still lube leaking out of him and getting his cheap whiteys dirty. He should’ve said he wanted cash and not a little pile of white to make up for that missing grand, but the trick had a gun and a hard look in his face and Roman’s out of practice of saying no.

Roman doesn’t like walking. Hates it. He hates coke. Hates the way his gums scrape against his teeth, hates the way he feels like he’s about to have a nosebleed and his heart explode out of his chest. He itches all over, like all of himself fell asleep and his blood’s finally rushing back to where it should be. The last time he felt like this, he punched a window and yeah– better to walk it off and avoid Hutts for as long as he can manage.

No taxis run in this part of town anyway, jammed full of no-tell motels like a mouthful of crooked teeth.

He walks carefully in the gutter, picking his way around the trash and resenting the pricks who didn’t put in an actual sidewalk. He glances at the thin ribbon of brown ground onto the grass next to him, made by the feet of people who need sidewalks but like living a little more than having an easier walk.

If Roman gets hit by a car, he gets hit by a car. He heard it’s like running into a wall at full-speed, making everything numb with the impact, and well. _Solve a lot of problems_ , Roman snorts to himself, rubbing his nose and ignoring the random honks from whizzing cars, walking towards his place. His throat is dry, from being fucking jumped up and from walking in the heat. He can’t even work up any spit.

A rumble of a large engine– a pickup– pushes towards Roman’s ears. Roman presses himself closer to the curb. Getting hit by a pickup would only work if it _worked_. The pickup slows down, stopping next to Roman, braking with a hissed _squeal_. He turns, takes in the pickup. He recognises the truck. A grim film of dust on that black paint, the large wheels pushed up a little higher than usual, and windows that slide down to reveal _him_.

 

_Him_ , that Shea prick with a thick beard and an even bigger cock. Roman hears the doors unlock with a loud _clunk_ , and Shea says, “Get in.”

“Not a good neighborhood,” Roman shrugs, not quite saying _no_.

Shea presses his lips in a grim line, and jerks his eyes away from Roman’s face. Roman watches him drum his fingers on the steering wheel before he reaches underneath himself, pulls out his wallet, and draws out a wad of cash. Shea taps it against the dashboard, his eyebrows raised, and says, “Please. Get in.”

Roman gets in.

Shea looks at him, his eyebrows twitching close together, but he doesn’t say anything about Roman’s too small-pupils, or the way Roman’s tapping his fingers against the door handle. Roman could like Shea. He doesn’t state the _obvious_ like some Johns do. Roman reaches to pull the wad of money from the dashboard– all twenties, and he knows from curling his hand around it that there’s at least $1500 in his hand. He smirks, and looks back at Shea and the small flush creeping up his neck. Shea curls his hand around the wheel. Roman takes in Shea’s hands, the square-ness of them, the little hooked scar around a thumb that could be an accident or not. Probably not. Guys like Shea don’t have those sort of troubles. Roman leans back against the car seat, his back a straight line against the smooth leather, and watches Shea drive. It’s not restful.

Shea doesn’t look at Roman, keeps staring straight out the windshield and Roman runs his nail along the collar of Jackson’s picture on the top of the $1500 wad. None of the bills are old-style, and Roman could kiss him for being considerate. Shea shifts in his seat at a stop sign– this is the sort of neighborhood you _pause_ and not _stop_ – and clears his throat.

“Want to go to the Hampton Inn?” Shea asks, “Stay a bit?”

Roman fans out the bills in his hand, running the tip of his nose across the dark green _20_ stamped on each right-hand bottom corner, and flutters his eyelashes, “So polite,” and watches Shea shutter his eyes. Good. Just a transaction, and it makes it easier for Roman to say, “You’re gonna need special rubbers–”

Shea opens the glove compartment, and a box of SKYN LARGE condoms falls into Roman’s hands. Roman quirks a smile, and says, “What a boy scout.” Shea shrugs, and pulls into an empty spot in the back of the motel. He already has a key card. Roman makes himself turn off most of his thoughts; whatever Shea’s planning, whatever he was thinking when he saw Roman– either way Roman’s going to get fucked.

The room is anonymous, with heavy curtains drawn across the narrow window despite the startling sunlight outside. The dimness makes Roman hang back until Shea flicks on the lamp by the bed. Shea sits on the bed, and unbuckles his pants, the clink of his belt loud as it hits the end table, and Roman says, “Keep going. Show me what you’re going to fuck me with.”

Shea licks his lips, says, “You shouldn’t–” but he does it anyway, letting Roman watch him push his pants down to his knees, yank his underwear underneath his balls. Shea’s cock is curved, the foreskin sliding down the deep-red tip, thick in Shea’s sturdy hand, plumping up with a few strokes, a run of nails up the side. Shea’s shirt curls up his hairy belly, his hand pressing down against the base of his cock. Roman looks at how much Shea’s own cock weighs itself down against his skin, full of blood, twitching with every breath Shea takes, and he thinks distantly, _that’s going to hurt._

Roman leans against the wall, next to the sliding closet, and says, “Ever fucked anyone up the ass before?”

Shea takes a few beats before he shakes his head _no_. A strange heat blazes up Roman’s spine, making him closer, and pushes Shea down against the bed. Shea lets him, and his shirt pulls up as he looks back at Roman. Roman leans closer, “Ever fingered an asshole? Not like a cunt. But lucky you, you don’t have to learn how to do it today.” Shea’s eyes flicker, and Roman can see when he figures out Roman’s already been fucked once today, his dark eyes getting even darker. Fucking caveman. Roman undresses, his skin goosebumping against the tepid air in the room, and he reaches behind himself, just to make sure he’s slick enough–

It’d do, especially when Roman watches Shea curl his hands into the worn comforter, his eyes sliding down to Roman’s cock and then up again and then down again. Roman flicks a condom from the box, and says, “You can look. You’re paying for it.”

Shea tilts his head back, showing Roman his throat, tries to laugh, “Yeah.” His fake laugh turns into a soft moan when Roman rolls on the condom, and Shea looks _astonished_ when Roman eases himself down. Roman grits his teeth behind a smile, every push making him ache and sting, and focuses on the way Shea’s not even _breathing_ , so fucking afraid to break Roman. Shea’s a big man, could beat Roman in a fair fight, but Roman never liked _fair_.

Roman finally, finally slides down, his ass flush against Shea’s hairy thighs, and presses his hands against Shea’s shirt, wrinkling the fabric, getting it dirty with the grit underneath his nails. Shea’s trembling, his mouth open, and he still hasn’t even touched Roman. Roman doesn’t even know if he wants Shea to touch him, not when he’s twitching around him, his body gripping around the cock in his ass. He doesn’t move, it’s just– too much, too thick, and it’s bumping up against his prostate painfully, so painfully it comes around as almost good, but not good.

“A big boy,” Roman says, and Shea can’t even complete the smile his lips try, and yeah, that’s the look of a man who’s trying not to come.

Too bad.

Roman clenches around Shea’s cock, amazed at how much he can manage to clench with this cock inside him, and it only takes three at _most_ before Shea comes with an moan that makes Roman itch to stuff his mouth with his own fingers. Shea pants, and Roman strokes Shea, just a few thrusts up and down to make Shea’s fists curl even tighter in the sheets. Roman eases off, his knees almost jelly, and presses his hand on Shea’s chest. Shea reaches down to touch Roman, and Roman slaps his hand away.

“Giving’s a little different from taking,” Roman says shortly, and Shea swallows.

“What if I want to give?” Shea says, and the only response is to kneel above Shea’s face, his cock swaying above Shea’s lips, and Roman’s just far enough that Shea can’t even mouth at Roman, no matter how much he may claim he wants to. Shea groans, his lips working and maybe if it was different, Roman’d give in and fuck his mouth, give him a crash course on sucking a dick, because it’s so fucking obvious Shea has never even thought about this until whatever the fuck led him to that text.

It’s not different, and Roman gets off the bed. Shea thumps his head against the mattress, but he doesn’t talk, or try to beg Roman to let him get off. No, he just leaks _neediness_ while he watches Roman dress. Roman hurts, a little scrapped, not _raw_ , and that easy “Congrats” he tosses as he walks out of the room catches on his teeth.

He doesn’t look back.

* * *

Roman’s been summoned. Instead of going to a hipster brunch-slash-bar, Rinne insists on seeing Roman in a wasteland of business parks out past North Nashville, next to the shittier airport. Roman has to beg the car off his roommate, promising to bring the Saturn back in _pristine_ condition on pains of having to make the jerkwad’s portion of next month’s rent.

For a car that’s supposed to be in “pristine” condition, the Saturn has an alarmingly large dent in the rear bumper, a slightly balding doughnut tire in the front, and a concentrated dust of french fries debris all over the floor. Whatever. He didn’t put it there. Roman drives the speed limit, obeys all traffic laws, even as half of Greater Nashville whizzes by him on the highway. The way his luck is going, it would make too much sense for Roman to get pulled over in a “routine traffic stop” and then got his ass deported.

Roman pulls into an empty parking lot, with grass pushing up through the cracks in the shitty asphalt, and cranes his head as he gets out of the car. There’s a large glass slab of a building at the head of the parking lot, with a real estate sign plastered across the side facing the highway. Roman sees Rinne’s car– a discreet black Audi– and steels himself as he walks into the sterile glass lobby.

The sun strikes the back of his neck as he crosses the atrium, hot through poorly-insulated glass, and finds a plastic teal plaque with the building tenants listed in white letters. Most of the vowels are chipping off, but Roman finds–

“ABC Basic Services, Suite 4B”.

There are no visible stairs, and the elevator is claustrophobic as Roman gets in. The mirrors on all four sides bounce light straight into his eyes, and he grimaces as he presses the _4_ button. He stares straight ahead at the steel fireproof doors, not wanting to see how fucked up he’s looking today, not enough sleep, food or money, and too many uppers. He’s still aching from sitting on that cock of Shea’s, and thank fuck Shea was too scared to bother marking him up.

Rinne’s waiting when the doors jerk open, with a show of teeth and wearing a white button-up shirt with dark Euro jeans that almost makes Roman feel homesick.

Almost.

 

Roman scrubs his hands against his pants, and steps out of the elevator. Rinne claps the back of his neck, making him stiffen before he forces himself to relax under the stifling weight of Rinne’s hand. Rinne pulls him in, with a _good boy_ and brushes the side of his cheek with a dry parody of a kiss.

Rinne’s always up to no good– Roman fucking knows that– but he’s not a man you say _no_ to if you want to enjoy the use of all of your limbs. So Roman lets Rinne lead him by the neck further into the maze of taupe drywall.

He’s too busy trying no to trip over his feet trying to match Rinne’s much longer stride to focus on the faint pang of _oh shit_ that’s running in the back of Roman’s head. All Roman knows is that he’s alone with _Rinne_ , and Rinne takes whatever he wants.

Rinne’s office matches its master, bland and full of sharp angles. Roman is seated onto a chair that little more than a squiddle of chrome topped by a black leather cushion. Rinne sits in the only real chair in the room, maybe even in the building, and smiles at Roman from across the vast clear desk.

Roman curls his fingers around the edges of the cushion, pressing his feet flat against the carpet tiles, his ass protesting at this fucking IKEA abomination. Or whatever the Finnish equivalent is. Roman resists the urge to wipe the bead of sweat that rolls down the side of his neck, feeling like a fish on a hook.

Rinne doesn’t let Roman dangle _too_ long.

“Mr. Josi–” Rinne says, and Roman feels panic surge through him. Becks never shared surnames. When was the last time Roman saw his passport? Did Hutts hand over that expired visa to _him_? Roman doesn’t dare blink.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” and it’s not a question. Roman doesn’t bother saying yes. Rinne’s smile becomes broader, _gloating_ , and Roman swallows back the sourness in his mouth. Rinne leans back in his chair, “I could tell the proper authorities. We do use E-verify. I could play the shocked, shocked job creator as they haul you off to… Switzerland. A nice little place. All of those cuckoo clocks and clean water. Not to my taste.”

Roman stares at Rinne, unable to tear his eyes away. Rinne has very sharp eyeteeth, he realizes, almost vampiric. Rinne strokes the arm of his chair, and shrugs, “Just another classic case of running away, eh, Roman? Maybe with a side of parental issues and being a repeat offender.”

“It’s not your business,” Roman grits out, “ _sir_.”

Rinne raises a pale eyebrow, “Oh, but I disagree, _Roman_. You see, I want to think of this business as a family. You come to me with problems, and I help you. I come to you with problems, and you help me. You’re not just a pretty face, Roman.”

Roman forces himself to smile, to tilt his throat back, and _simper_ , “I’ve never been told otherwise, sir.”

Southern manners have their uses, and Roman takes a sick satisfaction from Rinne narrowing his eyes at him, his mouth thinning into an irritated line. “Get up,” Rinne orders, watching Roman get to his feet, and smiles, “Bend over the desk.”

Roman does. His cheek’s flat against the dark glass, and maybe he won’t get friction burns this time. He knows what’s coming, even before Rinne prowls around the desk and yanks down Roman’s jeans. Roman bites his teeth. feeling blood well up against his teeth, even though Rinne’s just holding his ass cheeks open, making a little tutting noise.

Fuck. Rinne brushes a dry finger against the rim of Roman’s still-swollen asshole, and Roman sputters a bloody breath against the desk. Fucking Shea, that dumb prick, and Roman didn’t even think to get off on it–

Rinne taps his fingers against it, making Roman clench, the pain sending water to his eyes. Rinne presses his mouth against Roman’s ear, “What have you been shoving up that ass, pretty boy?”

Roman chokes on a pained sound when Rinne eases his thumb in, his manicured nail catching against his stretched rim, forcing out, “A client.”

The amused noise Rinne makes sends a cold sweat down Roman’s spine, and Rinne hums, “He must be an impressive guy. Spread your legs.” Roman does.

Rinne has smooth hands, but then pushing bodies and making them sweat isn’t hard work, not when he can smell blood and get off on it, and fuck, Roman’s trying not to move when Rinne strokes his thumb in and out. He’s tingling with cold, his hands numb, and everything in his mind is just focused on Rinne– fucking him.

A wash of hot humiliation claws up Roman’s gut. Rinne’s going to fuck him, hold him open, over this big desk, and he can’t do anything about it. Rinne presses another finger in, and makes that horrible amused _noise_ again, says something in Finnish that has to be the equivalent of _like throwing a hot dog down a hall_ , because Rinne doesn’t try to put his cock in him.

Roman stays still, plastered to the desk with sweat and fear. He sees Rinne squirting hand sanitizer into his palm out of the corner of his eye, and he then makes a call on his mobile. Roman refuses to think, his brain a flat grey hiss, his mouth hot with blood and bile.

Whoever else Rinne _summons_ takes no time at all. Roman closes his eyes. He can’t close his ears, not when Rinne says, “Mr. Weber. Catch.”

Whatever Rinne throws, Weber catches. Rinne strokes Roman’s hair, and Roman’s too scared to be repulsed, his heart pounding a tattoo against the desk as Rinne says, “Someone’s loose enough for you. Lube up, Mr. Weber. Fuck this little prick into oblivion. Make him come his little pretty brains out. Whoever had a go at him early did him pretty good, didn’t he? Plug it up.”

The most words Rinne’s ever said at once, and it makes Roman fight a sick swoop of laughter. Fucking Finns.

Weber coughs, “Sir–”

“Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

Roman could almost make himself feel sorry for this Weber, but he’s the one getting– Roman presses his teeth against his lip to cut himself off. He can’t see anything, but that makes every sound, every little displacement of air _larger_. There’s a jangle of a belt, a hot hand on his skin, this one rough, and Roman doesn’t listen for a whispered _sorry_.

Cold lube gets pressed up his ass, and then more, until there’s two fingers, going slow, like they’ve never been into an ass before. Roman sets his teeth, and then those hands curl around his ass, holding it open just enough for a thick dick to slide across his hole. Whoever Weber is, he’s big, Shea-big.

Fuck, Rinne’s getting off this, unzipping those expensive pants and stroking his cock. Roman keeps staring at the glass, expanding into vaster horizons the more Weber tries to open him up. Weber’s trying, to be gentle, but he’s just too thick, almost clumsy. Roman’s not going to cry, he refuses to.

Roman scrapes his nails against the smooth glass, one of them bending back, when Weber tries to slide his dick in, the head catching against his rim before Weber shoves it _in_. Roman’s gapsing, the glass pressing down on his chest and Weber’s hand pressing against his back, and Weber thrusts in, slowly–

“You’re not making Mr. Josi happy, Mr. Weber. Look how limp he is.”

Weber chokes out, “Sorry, sir,” and palms Roman’s cock, too rough, but then he mutters, “Sorry,” when he realizes Roman’s not cut, and strokes Roman’s foreskin, moving it up and down with his finger and thumb, and Roman forces himself to _relax_ , to not think about Weber filling him up. Weber keeps touching him, until Roman’s hard, leaking into his palm, and that makes Weber huff out an satisfied noise–

and thrusts in, his hips shifting against Roman’s ass. Fuck, this angle is even better, and Roman knows he could come, if Weber kept this pace up, slow and through, glancing off his prostate and rubbing his still-painful rim in that way that makes wires cross in his fucking head, fuck. Weber’s in good shape, strong, and Roman doesn’t ever want to see his face, not when he’s being drilled for some fuckhead’s amusment.

Roman can hear the wet squelch of lube, the slap of Rinne’s hand on his cock, and Roman sobs when Weber curls his hand back around his cock, rubbing the tip with his thumb and leaning his weight against him, the starched fabric of Weber’s shirt brushing against his back, and it’s good, good against his will, and Roman curls over the edge, his ass spread wide and his cock stroked and held like it’s _gold_ –

“Good, my boys,” and Roman hates his cock for kicking out more come at Rinne’s voice, and Weber pants harshly in his ear, his palms sweaty and almost shaky, and Roman forces himself to clench around Weber’s cock, and then–

That moan.

Roman jerks his head up in surprise, and fuck, it’s fucking Shea, coming in his ass, and Roman shivers with anger, a twisted pleasure–

Rinne smirks as he scrubs his own come-covered hand with a tissue. Rinne strokes the curve of Roman’s ear, says, “Such big boys are hard to ride, Mr. Josi. And Mr. Weber’s loving it, isn’t he? Rock your hips some more.”

Roman glares up at Rinne, and fucks himself on _Shea’s_ cock, making Shea gasp, his breath wet with _something_. Shea presses a hand over the small of Roman’s back, almost in apology, and takes his time sliding out. Roman rolls his face against the desk, feeling _come_ drip out of his ass, because fucking Rinne wanted Roman like this, wet and dripping with embarrassment.

Shea clears his throat, pulling up his pants, and Rinne says, “Come here.” Shea comes closer.

Roman doesn’t move. But he can see Rinne stroking Shea through his pants, squeezing hard around his spent cock, and Roman can’t look away. There’s nowhere else to look. Not up at Shea’s face. Not up at Rinne’s fucking face. Rinne taps Roman, “Get up. Don’t feel like you’ve got to clench in front of us.”

Heat burns through Roman, and Roman lets himself think about crashing Rinne’s slicked-back scalp through the glass desk, sending black shards everywhere, before he pushes himself up. He can feel blood throb just at the bottom of his ribs, and that mark’s going to be black and purple, and fuck, come’s rolling down his bare legs. He can feel Shea trying not to look but looking anyway, and Roman fixes his eyes on a support column behind Rinne’s shoulder.

Rinne curls his hand around Shea’s neck, and says, “Want him to bounce on you more?” The unspoken subtext is _be good_ , but Roman doesn’t give a fuck if Shea screws him. Roman’s already been screwed. Rinne grins, a sharp glint in his bland face, and pulls Roman closer, his fingers digging into his ass, letting come drip onto his fucking manicured fingers–

“And as for you, pretty Mr. Josi,” Rinne says, “I think it’s time for you to be of more use.”

Roman forces a smile on his face.

* * *

Roman slurps his iced tea, grimacing at the sweetness, squinting against the glare of the sun in the east.

Shea mutters, “Sorry for the–” He falters, staring out the window at the house they’re casing, stalking some rich person who’ve pissed off Rinne. Roman flattens his straw with his teeth, watching Shea turn pale underneath his tan. The first time they’re both alone, unwatched after _that_ , and that’s what Shea wants to say?

Something to reassure himself, to tell himself they’re not as fucked up as they are?

Roman sticks his foot up on the dashboard, leaving a neat imprint of his shoe on it. and laughs bitterly, “For fucking me in front of our psychopathic boss? Not sure there’s a fucking card for that, _Shea_.”

Shea breathes out, the muscles in his neck flexing as he grits his teeth. He fucking shuts up for the rest of the morning, even though Roman can _feel_ him thinking about the times he’s paid for Roman’s ass, the times he got himself naked and needy in front of Roman. Whatever. Roman knows whatever leverage he’s got is really damn small compared to whatever Rinne has on them.

They work together. Roman doesn’t like having to be the smooth to Shea’s rough, luring people closer with his body before they see Shea close the door behind them.

Doesn’t like being the quiet, reasonable voice that suggests installments just as Shea gives the first gut punch. Being the manicured hand that throws a tissue down on the ground for a bleeding nose, meeting those panicked eyes looking _at_ Shea and not at Roman. Shea delivers his hits well, but it’s very. Very ‘you are x dollars behind, and you will get y pain’.

 

It ought be Shea being the reasonable guy, while _Roman_ fucking gets to wreck shit. Apparently, once a hooker, always a hooker, and there is the not-minor fact that Shea has 10 kilos on him and a profound lack of smiles while they’re on the clock. Which is always. Rinne keeps odd hours.

In addition to being a freak with creepy tastes, Rinne’s a snoop. Which means they get tapped to help with this 'project’.

Shea doesn’t wear a suit well, but he can put on a jumpsuit and work a cherry picker, which means Roman is the one to slip in and distract people while Shea… compromises a few lines. This investment firm’s more wired than the bank down the road, but one small advantage of having expired documents means that no one’s going to match up Roman and get cherries.

Roman doesn’t get much further than the front desk, but that’s exactly what he had in mind, and he slips the piggyback onto the back of the receptionist’ computer. How it piggybacks, Roman doesn’t know. He’s not a technical person. Shea is. If being a linesman for the local electric co-op for a year counts. Roman doesn’t give a fuck as long as he doesn’t get _summoned_.

He knows he will, just like water is wet. Just happens that thinking about the future is a shitty way to survive. Roman walks a good distance before he climbs into Shea’s empty pickup, and waits. How Shea got the cherry picker, how he’s going to put it back, Roman doesn’t know. Probably better that way.

Roman amuses himself with the stack of _CDs_ Shea has stacked in his glove compartment, next to a .35 and some condoms. He raises an eyebrow at the condoms, his fingers brushing against the multicolored foil wrappings. At least Shea’s keeping that ridiculous cock of his wrapped up.

Shea has bad taste in music. Two discs of sappy country, one of which looks like is an ode to Straight Missionary Sex Blessed by Jebus, Nickleback– which explains why Shea dresses like a 2000s escapee– and for some fucking reason, _one_ disc of the Who. Roman smirks when he turns over the back and sees that it’s the one with the “Who are you” song. Figures that when Shea has almost-decent taste, it’s by accident.

He puts the CDs back, and looks at the condoms again. They’re all fresh. Brand-new. Roman stares at one, turning it over in his fingers, and he knows this one wouldn’t fit Shea. It’d fit anyone else. What it quite means, Roman’s not sure. Did Shea find his newfound love for cock so fucking overwhelming and rushed out to get condoms for assfucking? Did he get a handful at one of those clubs Roman’s been told to not bother trolling, because they’re not under Rinne’s thumb?Does this mean Shea would bend over and beg for someone to screw him?

The gun makes _more_ sense.

Roman slams the glove box closed. He drinks his watered-down iced tea and grimaces again. Even with all of the ice melted, it’s still too fucking sweet. Fucking Southerners. It’d be easier to try and force down coke– liquid and powder– but Roman has a figure to keep.

The pickup doors pop unlocked and Shea eases in, his jumpsuit unbuttoned halfway to his navel and showing a yellowed tank top underneath it. Shea yanks his sunglasses off, rubbing at the red indentations on his nose, and turns on the pickup. Roman raises his eyebrow, “Got that thingie on?”

Shea drawls, “Why, no, I just bounced around on the little lifty thing with my thumb up my ass–” he breaks off, “Yeah, I got the router connected. I don’t have to ask if you got–”

“The thingie in the, erm, hard drive.” Roman shrugs. His English isn’t that technical. Shea looks at Roman, and doesn’t make any more sarcastic remarks. They drive down to Shea’s shitty house, on the other side of town, hitting red every single goddamn light.

At the last one, Roman taps his fingers against the glove compartment, and Shea shifts his eyes to Roman, almost looking a little. _Panicked_. Roman smiles, and says, “Know how you can make that up to me?”

Shea licks his lips, and shudders at the sound of a honk behind him, slamming his foot against the pedal when the light is green. Roman strokes the thin film of dust on the dashboard, and says, “You can figure it out, or I can tell you.”

“You seem to know how,” Shea grits out, his face turning a deep shade of red as they pull into Shea’s cracking driveway. Roman watches Shea put the pickup into _park_ , turn off the engine, and locks the doors. Shea turns in his seat, and Roman pushes him against the driver side window, his breath forced out in a huff as Roman curls his fingers up in the faded blue jumpsuit Shea’s wearing, and smiles.

Roman leans closer, drags his mouth across Shea’s parted lips, and says, “Ever been fucked?”

Shea doesn’t say anything, and Roman shakes Shea, hot anger stabbing through him, “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, all alone in your hick house, needing a good fucking,” and smiles meanly when Shea closes his eyes, “That’s what you can do.”

Shea opens his eyes, tries to snap _fine_ but his voice is just this side of firm. Roman strokes his beard, watches Shea try not to lean into his hand, says, “Not here. Show me where your bed is.”

Shea licks his lips. Roman follows him in, the house dim and cool. Shea’s too big for these walls, in a way that doesn’t apply to Roman _quite_ as much, and Shea shows Roman his bed. It’s unmade, the covers ruched down to the floor, and one pillow looking very punched out.

Roman doesn’t have to tell Shea to get naked, not when he pushes himself out of the jumpsuit like it’s on fire. Roman stops him just as he tries to pull off his tank top, pressing his hands over Shea’s, curled over the hem. Shea looks at Roman, his eyes very dark. Roman pinches his nipples through the ribbed cotton, watching Shea breathe in sharply, and says, “Bend over the bed.”

Shea does, and Roman rubs a hand over those plaid boxers, scrapping his nail through the fabric. He doesn’t move, but Roman can feel him _expect_ , and he rubs his fingers over Shea’s cleft, maybe pulling on his boxers enough to make it uncomfortable for Shea. Roman pushes the boxers down, snapping the elastic waistband against the back of Shea’s thigh, “Where’s the stuff?”

Shea points to the dresser, and Roman finds them in the first drawer. Johns are so fucking predictable, even when they’re not being Johns. Roman pulls the lube out, and puts some on his fingers, warming it up as he looks at Shea, his ass almost hairy, and smiles. Yeah. Shea wants it. Roman presses his slick fingers against Shea’s asshole, and Shea stiffens before he makes himself relax. Roman strokes Shea’s hair, his fingers catching on the thick strands, “I hope I don’t have to tell you to relax.”

Roman licks his lips in concentration as he circles one finger around Shea’s rim, and pushes Shea’s legs open. Shea’s hard, his fists tangled up in the sheets, and Roman pushes in. Fuck. Shea’s tight, a lot tighter than Roman’s ever been in a while. Roman laughs, “Maybe I should just give you the tip. Fucker like you, you’d probably love it–”

“Fuck me,” Shea growls, and Roman pulls at Shea’s hair, just enough for Shea to blink against the water in his eyes. Shea tries to move, but then presses back against Roman’s finger, making a soft _ungh_ sound that goes straight to Roman’s cock. The muscles in Shea’s back flex when Roman pushes more lube in, and yeah, Shea hasn’t done much, has he?

Roman drags his cockhead just over where he’s stretching Shea open, and presses his fingers down–

“Fuuuuck,” Shea moans, working himself against Roman, trying to rub his ass against Roman’s cock, and Roman pushes Shea down. Position like this, Roman has leverage, and Shea’s so cockdumb over discovering his prostate that it’s easy to push in another finger, too easy to forget that little extra lube–

Shea works himself on Roman’s fingers, his balls slapping against Roman’s knuckles, and Roman takes a vicious pleasure at pressing his nails against the heft of Shea’s ass, scraping against the thin dusting of hair there. Shea slaps the mattress, and says, “Fuck, just put it in me, fuck–”

Roman slides his fingers out, circles his fingertips against Shea’s rim, maybe hooks one in before he slips out. He curls himself around Shea, says into his ear, “You forgot please.”

“Please, please, fuck me–” Shea shouts, and Roman eases into him, almost biting his tongue at how hot and tight Shea is. He has to go slow, even if he doesn’t want to, even if he wants to slap his hips against Shea and ride this fucker straight through the floor. Shea clenches, gasping raggedly, and Roman thrusts in just once, “Not as easy it looks, is it?”

Shea pants, his back slick with sweat, “Just fuck me–”

Roman shoves his face against the sheets, and eases into Shea’s ass until he feels Shea _unclench_. Shea gasps, and Roman rubs at his rim, just enough for him to feel Shea work at taking Roman. Roman smiles, and thrusts in, hard, too hard, and Shea doesn’t even grimace. Just a little sound, almost an _ahn_. Fucked thing is, it makes Roman fuck him harder, until Shea’s almost loose around him, until they’re half stretched out across the bed, getting it dirty with lube and precome–

Shea eases his hips off the bed, and Roman strokes his hips as he slows his pace. Shea clenches, and Roman says, “Fuck, you love this, don’t you, I can see how hard you are, how much you’re dripping–”

Shea pushes back, and Roman slides in, sweet and mean, holding Shea against him, sliding his lips against the sweat-slick skin on Shea’s neck. Shea sobs, and Roman licks him, _focuses_ on fucking him, good and hard, feeling Shea’s breath come in little gasps. Roman could come like this.

“Fuck,” Shea pants, “Please– please come,” clenching around Roman, and Roman slaps his cock with the back of his hand. Shea twitches, and Roman says, “ _Where_?”

“My ass, please fill me up, please–” Shea says softly. He scrubs his face against the sheets, trying to be still, trying not to touch himself, fuck.

Roman clutches at Shea’s arms, feeling blindsided, and stares at Shea’s brick-red neck as he fucks him, uses his ass, and fuck those small noises Shea keeps making just winds him up, makes Roman want to shove his fingers into Shea’s mouth and watch him suck them.

Roman makes a pained noise before he pins Shea down and pounds him until he comes, with a shivery feeling, watching Shea try and failing to come, his hips still working against the sheets until Roman presses Shea down. Roman doesn’t want to pull out, even if it seems like an _good_ idea, and he says, “You’re not going to come.”

Shea shakes his head, licks his lips, “Fuck.”

Roman bites his lips, and the _sight_ of Shea being wound up, being like this, and not getting to come, it’s something he’s tempted to see again. Fuck.

He eases out, and Shea scrubs his face against his arms, and winces when he moves a little too fast. Roman arches a cool look at Shea, and Shea licks his lips, “You’re getting off on this. Telling me what to do.”

Roman looks down at Shea’s hard cock, curved against his thigh, and smiles hard, “Doesn’t happen often, does it.”

* * *

Roman scrapes his teeth over his lip, looking up at the sad excuse of hockey on the bar TV, running through quotes. Thinking about Shea’s big cock inside of him again, those hands on his hips. He’s not avoiding the question. Considering it, actually. He smears his fingers across the ring of condensation his beer glass leaves on the countertop, and looks at Shea, who’s avoiding his eyes and shifting in his seat. For such a big guy, in _their_ line of work, Shea’s got an overdeveloped sense of shame.

“Two thousand,” Roman answers. Shea presses his hands flat against the countertop, his face bland as his voice when he says, “Bit of an increase.”

Roman smirks over his glass, “I know what you’re packing. What gets you off. I think I value myself just _right_.” Shea quirks a rueful smile, scrubbing his beard as he watches the Canucks totally blow the power play. He gets up, and slides the dregs of his drink towards Roman.

“Got to go to the ATM, then,” he says, leaving Roman with the bartender. The bartender scrubs harder at the glass in his hand, his bald frown glinting in the neon lights. Roman shoots him a smile, and the bartender clears his throat, a cough that sounds like smoker’s discomfort.

Not just anyone can overhear Shea begging Roman to fuck his ass again. That’s fine. Roman knows how Shea can be, violent and mean and oversoft afterwards. He drains his glass, and pauses before he tilts Shea’s glass into his mouth. Riding Shea’s cock really requires a degree of relaxation Roman hasn’t been capable of in. Months. He scrubs his hand over his mouth, thinking about his lips touching where Shea’s lips did. Whatever. If Shea wants to kiss like the big sissy he is deep down inside Roman’s charging him more.

 

Shea saunters back in, a fat bank envelope in his hand. He presses the wad of money into Roman’s palm, and yanks him up to his feet, his grip digging a bruise into Roman’s _bone_. Roman licks the last of the beer off his lips, and says, “Easy on the merchandise, big boy.”

Shea raises an eyebrow, and leans in close, his beard brushing against the tip of Roman’s ear, growling, “I just paid for it.”

Roman grins.

Shea works so much harder when he’s annoyed.

And Roman has discovered he’s got an particular gift for annoying Shea. Shea pulls Roman close to him, his fingers pressing down on the inside of his elbow. It could almost be loving. Honestly, if Roman wasn’t getting paid for _this_ he wouldn’t let Shea touch him like this. He watches Roman every chance he can get, undressing him with those dark eyes of his, groping his ass with his gaze, licking his lips every time Roman stretches after a stakeout.

They walk back to Shea’s sad excuse of a house. They’re the only ones out, walking in the gutter rather than in the muddy yards next to them. There’s only one streetlight, casting an orange glow at the very top of the street. In the dark, they could be anything.

The envelope of money weighs down Roman’s jacket as he walks up to the porch. Shea opens the door for him, closing it behind himself. The inside of the house is hot from being closed up all day, baking under the humid air. It smells stale, even after Shea cracks open the window in his bedroom. Roman slides against the bedroom door, sweat prickling at his temples. He takes off his jacket, his shirt, and drapes it across his arm. He’s waiting for Shea.

Shea yanks the heaps of blankets off his bed, and looks at Roman. He tilts his chin, “Take off your pants.”

Roman strokes himself through the denim– they’re actually Shea’s, with a ridiculous button fly– and smirks, “Yeah?” Shea steps closer, pressing him flat against the door, the knob digging into Roman’s back, “If you don’t, I’ll– kiss you,” rubbing his finger across Roman’s mouth, “maybe French you. You know what that is?”

“Fuck off,” Roman snarls, unbuttoning his pants. Shea presses his hips against Roman’s hands, grinning, “So mouthy for someone who’s about to be drilled.” Roman sucks on Shea’s finger, and keeps the comment that springs into mind when Shea’s eyelids flutter to his own fucking self. Shea keeps petting him, stroking his fingers, his cock, and– So what if he gets hard. This new job means even fewer people get to feel Roman up, means that Roman can choose who feels him up for a _change_. Shea tugs on Roman’s pants, and breathes, “C'mon. Get on that bed. Ass up.”

Being naked, on that bed, means he doesn’t have to _perform_. Still. Old routines.

Roman presses his face against the unwashed sheets. They smell like spunk– probably only Shea’s, and Roman pressed down on the faint jealously of the possibility that it could not be only Shea’s. He wriggles against the rough sheets, almost feeling Shea watching him. Fuck, it doesn’t take that long to get naked and hard enough, and no way did Shea give him two grand just to watch his naked ass on his own bed. Even if that is _very_ Shea.

The chill of lube against his asshole makes Roman press back in relief, and Shea moans as Roman takes his finger easily. Roman laughs, “Still shocked?” and the way Shea shoves his finger back in makes him twitch. Fuck, Shea’s making a mess, going too fast, too hard, stretching Roman’s rim around his fingers painfully– and still Roman’s leaking all over Shea’s sheets, getting them dirtier. Shea pulls Roman up on his knees, moans when he sees Roman’s cock bobbing between his thighs.

Roman clenches around Shea’s fingers, grits out, “So I get hard over some little fingers. Don’t be so fucking impressed with yourself. Come on. Just fuck me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Shea says, petting a thumb around Roman’s asshole, right where he can feel the sharp sting of those knuckles, and Roman laughs bitterly, “Oh, but you are, just like this, _Shea_ ,” rocking back against those fingers, shivering at the slow drag in and out despite the burn of not enough lube–

Shea shoves Roman’s back down, “Don’t.”

“Come on,” Roman breathes, “You know my cock likes it.”

“It does?” Shea asks, and god, Roman’s so fucking happy he can’t see the confusion on his face, the sheer unawareness that Roman has a lot of wires fucking crossed and wound up in his head enough to make his cock jump against his abs at Shea’s inability to properly finger him. Roman doesn’t say anything.

Shea pets his hip, breathing out a shaky _okay_ before he slides his fingers out, a lot more carefully than he put them in. Roman bites his lip bloody at the slow push of Shea’s cock into him, the pain and heat making him feel oddly cold and shaky. Shea smooths a hand down Roman’s sweat-slick back, breathes “That’s a good boy,” and Roman screams when Shea pulls on his still-half hard cock, strokes it up to hardness again.

It’s too much, having Shea around and inside him, telling him bullshit laced with sugar, groping his cock because he fucking paid for it–

“Just fuck me,” Roman snarls, and Shea thrusts in-out-in, an uneasy sawing motion that makes Roman choke on his breath, and he curls a hand over Roman’s wrist, “I am. Feel me? In your ass?”

Christ, how in the fuck Roman managed to ride this the first time, he has no idea, and Shea laughs. Roman presses back, feeling the pressure almost turning into pleasure. Shea makes a pleased noise, and fucks in, harder, his hand on the small of Roman’s back, flexing against him–

Roman moans, making Shea breathe, “Yeah, that’s it, god, your ass–”

Shea gives him a lazy stroke before he shifts his hands down to Roman’s hips. Roman swallows, shuddering at how full he feels, the way Shea keeps taking his time, trying to make him crazy. It’s too much, too slow, too big, oh fuck, but god, the angle would be perfect if Shea was smaller, and it’s so fucked how not-good it is makes Roman’s balls ache. Shea’s hot and heavy against him, his pubic hair rubbing against Roman, catching on his ass.

His fingers slide all over Roman before trying to rub along his rim, just to see how much he’s holding Roman open. Roman’s fucked guys with big cocks, little cocks, but none of them kept pausing just to see how their dick looks in Roman’s asshole, not like Shea–

“You ever going to come?” Roman says, pressing his thighs tight against his aching cock. Shea pulls his thighs wide, mouths Roman’s neck, his ear, “You ever going to come on my cock? I like the idea of that.”

Roman drops his head, letting Shea pet his cock, in the same slow rhythm he’s fucking his ass, slow shallow strokes that wind him up and put heat on his cheeks and make his nipples hard. Shea brushes a thumb against one of his nipples, “Keep it up, Roman, and I may pay you money just to play with you a little more–”

His cock jumps in Shea’s hand, and Shea shoves in hard, “Fuck, you like that. What a fucking whore you are,” fucking him deeper, and Roman shifts in his hold, trying to get him to bump against his prostate. Shea squeezes him closer, fucking him so hard Roman can hear his balls slap against him, “God, Roman, your ass, fuck, can I lick myself out of it after?”

Roman stiffens. Shea strokes him off faster, pleading, “Please, god, I just want you, please, fuck–”

He comes– how can he not, not with a hand on his cock, not with all of that attention and need directed at _him_ , Shea rutting in his ass like he’s dying– rocking against Shea’s palm, gasping against the sheets at how good it feels, and thank fuck Shea keeps stroking him, almost milking even more come out of him–

Shea presses him flat to the bed, fucks him hard and fast, whining and his fingers like iron on Roman’s back just before he stiffens and comes with a soft moan, pumping into Roman’s ass. Roman shifts, and– Shea didn’t go bare, because he’s not fucking stupid, but. Roman licks his lips. Shea’s weirdly into things he can touch, feel, taste. For a lumberjack hick.

Roman clenches, and the pain shouldn’t make him wish he could get hard again. Shea looks at him, still greedy, and Roman slides a hand down his chest, “Not bad for two grand.”

Shea smiles, a little brittle, “No, not bad.”

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr!](http://hastybooks.tumblr.com)


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